Rumours and Gossip
by TWSythar
Summary: A small twoshot about rumours and legends in the Captain Scaramouche series. A what if on what might have been said about Grantaire and his friends a few months from the current storyline.
1. On Rumours

**A/N: This is one part of a two-shot set probably about between arcs 8 and 9 in the Capitain Scaramouche series. Please note this is not in lieu of a proper update, but I have to fix my footnotes and I'm too tired to do it properly. This chapter is written very wonderfully by TW - and we would both like to say Happy Belated Birthday to Ace! Enjoy! Proper update soon, tomorrow probably.**

The clinking of glasses and the hubbub of background chatter buzzed around Luc Courfeyrac's ears as he affected an impish grin. To complete the scene, amis, sketch in a low ceiling, a thick fog of cigar smoke stifling the candles, a clock that's just chimed two-thirty after midnight, and six or seven rakish college boys deep in their cups and ready to out-gossip any gossip with tongue left in her head. Naturally, that would include said Luc, sprawled across two chairs and a table-corner, and his _charming_ ami Dominic Bahorel, solidly holding down the other end of the table with two scabby elbows.

Another man at the table made a lewd comment on what else Scaramouche had, to general laughter. "Unless he's a eunuch. Don't the Persians do that to their soldiers?"

"So Scaramouche is a Persian soldier, now, is he?" the just-graduated Cévennes chuckled over his wine. "The last I heard, he was a Greek."

"Oh yes, but you know what they say about the Greeks –" More raucous laughter. Dominic pulled a little face across the table at Luc, who rolled his eyes in return. "Well, you tell us, Courfeyrac," (was it Sévigny? Names started to run together after the first few bottles) said interestedly, "what've _you_ heard about him?"

"I haven't heard all that much," Luc started to say coyly, but was cut off by protests of "he had _so_ heard quite a bit" and "he had better let them in on it or they wouldn't pay on the tab" and "he knew damn near everyone in this city and of course he had some Scaramouche stories if anyone did". "Fine, fine. Here's something interesting – but you know Bahorel heard it first, didn't you, Dom?"

Dominic nodded along. "Ah ouais. It's the talk of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine."

"Out with it, you two," somebody yelled tipsily.

Luc smirked. "Have a little patience and you'll know it. Now, mes amis, just today Bahorel told me the most _scandalous_ rumor was coming out of the Faubourg Saint-Denis –"

"I thought you said Faubourg Saint-Antoine," Cévennes said.

"And I did," Luc added smoothly. "It travelled there from Saint-Denis, see." Cévennes gave a skeptical look, but shut his mouth again. "Anyway. Back in the Faubourg Saint - - Antoine…the rumor has been going round that there is nothing extraordinary about his exploits at all. He really only gets away with them because he has seduced the Countess de R_, who I hear is a lady of some ('hem) influence with the police."

"Not a eunuch, then," Cévennes laughed.

"Or a Greek."

"You and your Greeks!"

"Lucien, you're mad. That's nothing at all like I heard it," Bahorel drawled, cutting through the laughter. "As _I_ heard it, it's just a pretty washerwoman who's the mistress always saving him, clever femme. He had to fight a duel with Pan Twardowski for her love, and busted him up pretty well too."

"Did not!"

"Did so! If you ever meet him, make him show you the scar on his shoulder. Big ugly thing it is, too, where he sealed it up again with his magic."

"_I'd_ like to meet him," the little freshman said boldly.

"Oh no you wouldn't, he'd eat you for breakfast."

"Oh for god's sake, Dominic, he's a sorcerer, not a _troll_! He doesn't eat _people_. Now, _souls_, on the other hand…"

And around and around and around.

By the time Luc and Dom stumbled out of the public house at four o'clock, all of their new and old friends had been convinced of any number of interesting and, sad to say, totally false stories about Scaramouche and the League. Coincidentally enough, they had also refused to let either of them pay a sous off the bill. "Creating legends, that's what we're doing," Luc mused to the skies as he lost and recovered his footing over a loose stone.

Dom snorted. "You mean keeping things lively for Perceval and them while having a little fun at their expense."

"True. Possibly true." Luc leaned onto Dom's arm. "In any case, not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night."

"Oh, yeah. Not bad at all."


	2. On Reactions

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't - you know what."

"I do not know what. What do you not want me to do which I don't know what you mean about?"

The small dark man raised a cool eyebrow at his companion at their little table towards the back of the public house. His companion - a clown-like man, large and all caricatured, was looking at him intently, a small smile on his large mouth - eyes twinkling. After a pregnant pause of intent staring, the clown reached out and jabbed a deliberate finger into the dark man's shoulder.

"..._that_, Perceval. _That._"

"How come you never show me all these interesting scars and things?" A tone of deepest hurt.

"..that in that you _know_ my shoulder is _fine..._"

"And during that chase over the fence down the Rue de Lyon when you twisted your ankle and I carried you _five_ blocks, you mean you could have..."

"...told you specifically not to... don't you _dare_..."

Another poke to the oposite shoulder this time, the clown tilting his head exactly like a cat. And indeed he was very cat-like in nature, eternally curious. "...could have quite easily healed it yourself - is it this one or the other?"

The dark man folded his arms and glared. "I'm not telling now."

"Beast."

"You should know, you're the one who gave it to me."

"Ah yes!" the large face lit up. "So I did. Over a girl! I wonder if she's pretty."

"Pfft. Washerwoman. Congratulations, I hope you marry her."

The clown smiled broadly and slapped his friend on the back. "So good of you to let bygones be bygones, old man. Fancy a bite to eat?"

"Do they serve souls?" was the dry reply as both rose from their seats and left the public house arm in arm.

It would be reported the next day that two further sightings of the madman Scaramouche and his pet magician had taken place. M. Raoul de Sevigny for instance swore to all his friends that as he was getting ready to collapse onto his bed, there was a knock - a real true putain knock - on his window and when he went to it outside this great huge man in red with a mask who told him a story about when it was polite and when it was not polite to spread rumours about gentlemen being eunuchs who merely went about minding their business in masks. de Sevigny would not comment on whether or not he had been intimidated and refused to say anything else on the subject - especially about Persians.

And the other - a young freshman - told anyone who would listen that as he got home a man in a cloak all pointed and hooded and masked like a wizard had stopped him with a 'I don't actually eat souls. Unless I'm asked politely. And no, you may not see the scar." Before disappearing to the sound of oddly hysterical laughter in a flash of smoke.

Strange to say, this did not slow the speed of rumours one whit.


End file.
